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In the three and a half hours we spend talking, the phone will ping 47 times: On Tinder, 35 women will match with him; 12 women on ­OKCupid­ will either ­message or favorite him.....On Tinder, he basically tweaks the same message. “The last person I matched with was Allison,” he says. If he were to send a message to Allison on a Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday, it would read: Hey there Miss Allison. What kind of trouble did you get into this weekend? “That’s exactly what I do, every fucking time,” he says, laughing. For Wednesday: Hey there Miss Allison. What sort of trouble are you getting into this week? Thursday or Friday: What kind of trouble are you getting into this weekend? And if it’s Saturday: What kind of trouble have you been getting into?

Depending on how the Tinder chat evolves, he tries to move the conversation to text and then to a real date. “There’s a tyranny of choice,” he says. “I feel kind of gross saying that out loud, because I don’t want to objectify people. But you just kind of have to.”

The other night at a party with friends, James was describing how much fun he’s been having when a 43-year-old woman overheard him and gave him a hard time. “She said to me, ‘You guys, you always have another option! When does it end? When does it end?’ ”

It’s easy to see how the attention could become addictive, so I ask James: When does it end?

“I don’t know,” he says. He describes himself as “romantic,” but, like a lot of people who log on and see thousands of singles within a mile of their Zip Code, he’s not really stressed about the end. “A lot of us want the best: the best job, the best apartment, the best significant other,” he says. And in his case, that might mean being the best bachelor as well—someone with the best stories of dating adventures to tell. In fact, he can’t stop thinking about this one incredible woman he met recently; they danced until two in the morning. Then he tells me about another beautiful, smart woman who fed him meat loaf at three in the morning. And then there was that woman with …

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“From each, according to his ability; to each, according to his need” 1875 K Marx

In London, 60 year old divorcée tries out online and Tinder sexdates and finds plenty of hot young no-strings lovers, takes a good long ride on the pleasure train, but ultimately finds it lacking. Also she gives a good reading of the culture:

I had grown strangely restless over my months of internet dating. I felt an almost constant urge to be looking to see who had been viewing or messaging me; to be checking the mobile for something from my conquests (I use that word with irony) and, if possible, indulge in lengthy, risqué texting sessions, sometimes into the small hours, with any who were around.

I had finally twigged how the virtual dating system worked. New connections were constantly forming, leaving earlier ones to dissolve. The hapless were dropped while other options were explored.

Everything was built on shifting sand, nothing was solid or reliable or entirely real. The more you wanted to believe in the emotional value of a particular connection, the more likely it was to be merely a mirage.

Normal responses to other human beings - involving sentiments such as hope and trust - were de-activated. If you couldn't play this pitiless game, you were in the wrong place.

I felt my internet-dating exploits edging towards some sort of culmination. I hadn't expected to find love, I hadn't been searching for it, I wasn't even sure I wanted it. But I felt a vague dissatisfaction because something was not right. I realised I didn't actually care about any of these men. Had all these human beings, even the good and likeable ones, become disposable, mere off-the-shelf products? I didn't want to feel like that.

It would only be when I crossed paths with someone who was genuinely special to me, and for whom I was special, that I could learn to care more profoundly again. And perhaps that day would never come.